We found large, chunky black buttons cut from some old coat of my grandfather’s, and we pictured him climbing down into the cold, dusty coal mines. We envisioned him wearing this coat at night, with his miner’s helmet and carbide lantern so he could see to plow the garden and fields. Inlaid anchors adorned a large pair of jacket buttons that we thought Grandpa must have worn during his Navy days while traveling the world.
We spent hours that day pretending, imagining and creating our own stories about our grandparents. We began to see them as they were when they were young adults just beginning in life, as real people, and not just elderly grandparents. These were people who had loved and served life well.
From that day on, every time we were housebound, we shyly asked Mamaw if she’d get down the Button Jar for us. She always smiled knowingly, stopped kneading her biscuits or shelling beans, and got it for us.
My grandmother died soon after I was grown and married, and I regret that I never even thought to tell her about the valuable gift she had given me and my sister when we were children, but I’m sure she knew.
The buttons illustrated that we were part of a continuing story—a story larger than ourselves. Buttons are inexpensive little items, made of plastic or metal, and they are used to hold things together. Mamaw’s buttons were fasteners, too, but they did much more than hold clothes together. . . . They held our family together with stories from the past and present. They formed a lasting legacy for our current family and for generations to come, one that continues to warm my heart and nourish my soul.
Susan Wells Pardue
My Father’s Hands
Tenderness and kindness are not signs of weakness, but manifestations of strength.
Kahlil Gibran
As my father’s devoted and only daughter, I noticed things about him my two brothers never mentioned or may have taken for granted. Two things in particular made Daddy more wonderful, interesting and capable than all the other fathers I’d ever seen or heard of— Daddy’s large, sensitive hands. How wonderfully warm they were when I placed mine in his to be rubbed warm on cold winter days. Daddy’s hands had endless capabilities, from braiding my pigtails or successfully retrieving a kite from the topmost branches of a tree, to washing my little brother’s diapers by hand when we couldn’t afford a washing machine. Whatever the job or situation, his tireless hands actively carried it out.
When he was a child, the eldest of seven children, Daddy went to work in order to help support his family. His own father’s failing health made it necessary for Daddy to drop out of school. He never complained about being a provider at such a young age. Perhaps that is where his hands found their direction.
Daddy had long, nimble fingers that could thread the smallest needle in order to mend the hem in my dress or sew on a missing button. They could carefully trim the nails of tiny fingers and toes, remove splinters, bandage skinned knees, and, unlike Mama, Daddy could tie straight sashes on my party dresses. Those same agile fingers had a magical way of strumming guitar strings, making my nursery tunes the most beautiful music I ever heard.
Daddy’s inventive hands were also strong and useful, wonderfully tanned from working in the sun, and a bit callused. There was no unfamiliar territory to Daddy’s hands. They could whip up a delicious and colorful meal in minutes (pancakes were his specialty and favorite). I loved to watch in wonder as his skillful hands worked.
Daddy’s hands conveyed a message as they tenderly stroked a fevered brow or mended a broken doll. They seemed to speak, to understand unspoken pain and emotional hurt when I found no way to vocalize this. Daddy’s hands soothed and sympathized through their touch as no words could.
Yes, these were the hands of my father. Hands with the knowledge of household repairs and heavy equipment that tenderly, untiringly cared for his children and my mother through her many long illnesses right up until her death with the soothing expertise of nurse and husband. Somehow, during those times when I was sick, it wasn’t so bad. Daddy would take a small blanket, warm it in front of the fireplace and wrap it around my small, cold feet with hands of love. Comfortably settled in his lap, it was apparent even then that no mother’s hands could have done better. How comfortable to be “all snuggled in,” sensing that everything would be all right!
Memories of the old, familiar railroad songs Daddy sang, as his reassuring hands patted me in time to the tune, linger still. Peacefully I sucked my thumb, nestled contented, loved and secure against the rhythm of Daddy’s heartbeat while the old rocking chair creaked back and forth. At these times, Daddy did not mention my thumb sucking. With my other hand, I would hold one of Daddy’s large hands studying the contours, tracing the lines, caressing the rough spots, now and then encircling my entire hand around one of his warm fingers with pride. Daddy’s nails were always trimmed, although he had a permanent split that made a funny design in his left thumbnail. This, too, was special and endeared him to me more because he was building my dollhouse when he acquired the injury.
My father’s hands were perfect in my little-girl eyes. They had the strength and power to move mountains. They made the impossible possible!
Years later, in a small hospital room as Daddy lay near death, too weak to speak out loud, I sat tearfully at his bedside. But, holding his hands, those delightful, formative, important years of shared experiences paraded before me in fond and vivid reminiscence. I smiled, recalling special moments as I proudly held those same wonderful hands in mine, seeking out and feeling once again every crevice and line, every callus and scar. I marveled at the many years these magnificent, dedicated, untiring hands had devoted to his family. What an experience of love they had brought. I lifted them, placing the tired, now pale hands against my face, reveling in how warm they were even now just as in my cherished yesterdays. I kissed each brown spot, reminders of his eighty-three years, but I did not see these brown places as “age spots.” To me they were beauty marks instead, representing a job well done. I could no longer hold back the tears filling my eyes.
For a brief moment, Daddy roused and opened his eyes as if he wanted to speak. I leaned over close to hear his whisper. With a faint, concerned smile of love, his trembling fingers reached up to gently trace my brow, stopping momentarily to wipe away the tears now glistening on the cheeks of his “little girl.” And time stood still. Then Daddy closed his eyes and, sighing one final breath, slipped quietly away.
As I looked down fondly at the precious, motionless hands of my dear father, I knew one thing for sure then, and I am even more sure of it now: No mother’s hands, in all the world, were ever more endearing or more beautiful than the hands of my father.
Floanne Kersh
Bird Heaven
We shall all meet in heaven.
Last Words of Andrew Jackson
While I was standing at the kitchen window, five-year-old Spencer, my oldest son, ran into the house screaming, “We need a doctor out here! We need a doctor! Hurry, Mom!!”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Spencer anxiously told me he had found a dead bird that needed a doctor.
Dutifully, I grabbed a small plastic bag from the pantry and took Spencer’s hand—after all, that’s the sort of thing mothers do! While my son led me out the door and toward the bird, I explained that if the creature was indeed dead, a doctor could not help. When we arrived at the accident scene, it was obvious that the baby bird was dead. Spencer and I could see the nest high up in the tree. My son and I discussed the probable age of the baby bird, its inability to fly well, and exactly how the fall had caused its death.
“I bet his mommy and daddy really miss him,” Spencer observed. I reached for my boy’s hand and tried to ease his sadness by saying I was sure they did, but that they would be okay because the little bird had gone to Heaven to be with God and PoPo (my deceased grandfather). I assured Spencer that the bird’s mommy and daddy knew their little one would be cared for and loved. I told Spencer that PoPo loved little birds, and I was sure he wa
s in Heaven holding and playing with the baby bird right then. I picked up the little creature’s body, slipped it into my plastic bag and gently placed the bird in the trash can. Nothing else was said about the matter for the rest of the day. Spencer went right back to playing as if he had never been interrupted, and I returned to my work in the kitchen.
At breakfast the next morning, Spencer sadly explained to his father that he had found a baby bird the day before that had fallen from its nest.
“It was dead, Daddy!”
Trying to lift Spencer’s spirits and remind him that the little bird was really okay, I asked our son to tell Daddy where the baby bird was. Spencer, looking solemn-faced at his dad, stated, “In the trash can with Mama’s granddaddy, PoPo.”
Merilyn Gilliam
My Angelique
In the twenty years that I’ve spent on the road as a tour manager and bodyguard for some of the top bands in rock and pop music, I’ve seen and experienced some incredible things. I’ve watched the sun rise like glistening gold dust on the beaches of Maui. Seated comfortably in a Lear jet, I have awakened to see the majestic Swiss Alps at dawn over three different European countries. I’ve sped across Japan in the cabin of a bullet train. I’ve stared at both solar and lunar eclipses. I’ve marveled at the brilliant northern lights beaming over the Laurentian Mountains of Canada. I’ve witnessed mud slides, fires, earthquakes and floods as well as snowstorms that lasted over forty days and nights. I thought I had experienced it all—but I was wrong. Each and every one of these incredible and awesome experiences pales in comparison with the humbling wonder I felt following the birth of my daughter, Angelique Gabrielle.
The exhilaration that took possession of me the day she was born was total; I had to be there for everything. Seated by my wife’s side, I was Ellen’s coaching, consoling husband during her hours of labor. Later, when the actual delivery began, I turned into an unstoppable paparazzo. I took dozens of pictures that no one later cared to see.
I had doctors photograph me holding my Angelique while her umbilical cord was still attached. After taking Ellen’s hands in mine and reminding her how very much I loved her, I took pictures of my long-suffering wife looking exhausted and totally disinterested following her ordeal. I took pictures of the doctors. While I gazed upon my incredibly pink, incredibly tiny new daughter as she rested in my hands, I felt I was looking into the Face of Creation. How could I have known what it would be like to love anyone so intensely?
The year my daughter was born, I ended my career as a tour manager. I swore I would never go back on the road again. But when Angelique was two, I was given the opportunity to compile Chicken Soup for the Country Soul. Unfortunately, the only method I could think of for obtaining stories from touring musicians was to do the one thing I’d promised I wouldn’t do—go back on the road. That was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. Fortunately, after a year, I was able to move my wife and daughter to Nashville to be with me.
One Nashville night while I was up late writing at the kitchen table, I heard a soft and gentle voice at my side. Angelique, then three years old, tugged on my shirtsleeve and said, “Daddy, it’s dark in my bedroom. Will you come and stay with me so I can get to sleep?” Is it any wonder that her bedtime has always been the most precious hour of the day for me?
“Sure, Honey,” I replied, pulling my six-foot-four, three-hundred-pound frame up from my chair. I took her little hand in mine and accompanied her quietly down the hall. When we reached her bedroom, we knelt in prayer before I tucked Angelique in under the covers and sat by her side. I told her to close her eyes and promised to stay until she fell asleep. I vowed I wouldn’t let any harm come to her while the sandman visited her dreams. In the soft glow of the night-light, I watched as her tiny fingers pulled the tattered security blanket up to her chin and my baby girl closed her eyes. Without warning, I was overcome by a wave of emotion and my heart split open. Quietly, unashamed, I let soft, gentle tears flow from my eyes. I couldn’t believe how much I loved her. On that night, and on many other nights since, I’ve had no difficulty finding the words to let my precious Angelique
3
THE POWER
OF FAITH
Count your blessings, instead of your crosses.
Count your gains, instead of your losses.
Count the yes’s, instead of the no’s.
Count your friends, instead of your foes.
Count your full years, instead of your lean.
Count your health, instead of your wealth,
And count on God, instead of yourself.
Source Unknown
Virtuous Woman
Once the dreams began, they never stopped, but once they did I wished they would start up again. They were always the same—an explosion, fires burning, an army tank overturned and my son Jimmy’s body lying on the ground. Someone was taking his rings and watch off, and I would wake up crying, saying his name over and over: “Jimmy . . . Jimmy.” I was afraid to close my eyes, even to take a nap. The dreams kept coming and they were so real.
The strange thing was, Jimmy was still in basic training at Fort Knox, Kentucky. He didn’t know about the dreams, and wouldn’t. I was afraid to give voice to them to anyone. Finally, from sheer exhaustion, I collapsed and was hospitalized. Four days later I awoke to find Jimmy sitting by my bed. It seemed, in my unconscious state I had repeatedly called his name. The doctor had contacted him and Jimmy got a ten-day leave. I told him it was just exhaustion, but the worried look on his face made me vow to myself that this would never happen again. I assured him of that. The dreams were never mentioned. I was to see him two more times.
After Fort Knox Jimmy was sent to Fort Polk, Louisiana, for advanced infantry training (AIT) where he received word he was being sent to Vietnam, but would be coming home for three weeks before going. Corky, my middle son, who had volunteered two months after Jimmy was drafted, and would also be going to Vietnam, was at that time stationed at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. On Jimmy’s leave, Corky, my youngest son David, and I went there so we could all be together for four days.
After boarding the plane to come home, Jimmy looked out the window at Corky still standing at the gate and said, “That’s the last time I’ll see Corky.”
I said “Please don’t say that.” But he just said, “It’s true, Mom,” and never spoke another word all the way home.
After arriving back in Nashville, I had to take David back to the private school he was attending, but waited as long as possible so he and Jimmy could spend time together. As I headed David for the car, Jimmy said, “That’s the last time I’ll see David.”
He saw the look on my face and said, “It’s true, Mom,” and went back into the house.
The next morning I awoke to the sound of the riding lawn mower. Looking out the window, I saw Jimmy in cut off Levi’s and tennis shoes mowing the backyard. I took him some lemonade and said, “You don’t have to mow the lawn.”
He looked around at the house, the yard, at me and his car sitting in the driveway, everything, then said, “I like to mow this yard, and who knows, it may be the last time.”
The next day, at three in the morning on American Airlines, he left for Oakland, California. Before boarding the plane he hugged me and said, “Promise me you’ll always sing ‘Where No One Stands Alone’ for me.” I promised.
Three days later he was on his way to Vietnam. At midnight that night the phone rang. The operator said, “I have a collect call from Wake Island. Will you accept the call?” Practically screaming, I said, “Yes!” I will never forget these words. “Mom,” he said, “I know it’s a long ways and costs a lot of money, but I just had to hear your voice one more time.” We both said “I love you,” then he was gone. Sleep was a long time coming.
The nightmares continued. Corky came home on leave before he was to go to Vietnam. One day as I was writing Jimmy a letter, it turned into what I guess you would call a poem. The beginning line was, “My son, my son, I pray that yo
u’ll come home to me my son, my son.” Finishing the whole letter, I read it to Corky. He said I should put it to music and send it to Jimmy. “He would be so proud,” he said. My producer, Owen Bradley, and my friend and coworker, Bill Anderson, agreed.
Two weeks later I went into the studio but couldn’t sing without crying. Owen said, “Jan, it’s just another song.”
“No, Owen,” I said, “It’s my son’s life.” Gently, he said, “If you can get through it one time, we’ll take it.” I did. In my next letter to Jimmy I told him to expect a small package, but didn’t tell him it was a tape of the song. I wanted it to be a surprise. “My Son” was released two weeks later. I tried to sing it in concerts, but the words couldn’t get past the lump in my throat. Corky left for Vietnam exactly two months at the exact hour and minute after Jimmy left; the twentieth of August.
October the twentieth I went to Atlanta, where I worked the next week. Worked and cried. I called my attorney, who was in the National Guard, and asked him to please check on the boys. His answer was, “Jan, they’re all right or you would know.” I told him that was the problem. . . . I did know. At the end of the engagement I returned home and did not leave my house.
Wednesday, October 29, I asked a friend how I would be notified if anything happened to my sons. I was told that two uniformed officers would come to my door. When I awoke Thursday morning I realized I had not had the dream. I showered and dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a light blue shirt, but no shoes. Ordinarily I would then put on makeup, but that morning I knew there was no use. My friend Jeannie Bare called and asked if I was all right. It was obvious she was crying. When I asked what was wrong, she said, “Oh, it can wait. I’ll call you back.” After that it was as if I was in a trance moving in slow motion. Ordinarily I would have turned on the Today Show, but not that morning. The phone rang again. It was my hairdresser asking me to please open the door because “they” had been ringing the bell for half an hour. I had not heard the doorbell or anyone knocking. “Who are ‘they’?” I asked and hung up the phone. But I knew. I don’t remember going downstairs.
Chicken Soup for the Country Soul Page 10